


All There (In a Way)

by Skalidra



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, No Amnesia, Non-Graphic Violence, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9319292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: When Shiro wakes, after his crash-landing back on Earth, he's strapped down onto a table, three people hovering over him in full quarantine suits. But he remembers every moment of the year he's been gone, and he's been Champion for far too long to be alright with being restrained, let alone being sedated.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to day 2 of Dark Voltron Week! Today's prompt is 'Corruption/Insanity', so I decided to write a short little thing about a Shiro that came back with full memory of his imprisonment. (Specifically, full memory of all his fights in the arena, and whatever experiments Haggar ran on him.) So have a half-beast Shiro in a little 'what-if' fic. Enjoy!

Shiro wakes up restrained, coming back to consciousness with the sharp sort of jerk that captivity trained into him. His eyes snap open, and the thing above him — white, human-shaped and sized; too small to be Galra — reels back with a startled sound, one arm flailing wide as it pulls out of his range of vision. He turns his head to follow, shoulders curling up off the table, teeth baring as he tries to rise and realizes that he's strapped down. Chest, waist, and knees.

Being strapped down has never been a good thing. Not _once_.

A hand shoves him down by his left shoulder, and he whips his head around and snarls upwards, jerking against the restraints to test how tough they are. As his vision sharpens, and his mind clicks online, he recognizes that the uniforms of the people above him seem somewhat familiar, like some sort of dream.

"Calm down," the man says, voice slightly digitalized from the suit, and his mouth curls into a sneer at the tremor of fear obvious in it. Fear is _weakness_.

"Let me out of these," he snarls, watching from the corner of his eyes to make sure that the seconds one doesn't try to sneak up on him and get him with anything else. " _Now."_

The hand presses harder on his shoulder. "You need to calm down," quickly turns into a snapped, "Get me a sedative!" when he snaps his teeth at the hand on his shoulder.

The command registers within a moment, and violent rebellion takes hold in a wash of instinct. _No one_ is injecting him with _anything_.

Heat and power rush up his arm, the hum of the Galra-given tech a death knell for anyone in his way, and he turns that hand and draws it sharply upwards. The restraints over his waist and chest part like butter, snapping to the side from the release of tension. The person pushing him down yelps as he twists out from under that hand, shoving up from the table and curling exactly as far as he needs to to sever the lower restraint as well.

By the time the man has reeled backwards he's free to roll off the table the opposite direction. He catches sight of a third person in the room, turning towards him, as he drops down to his knees and a single hand, toes curling beneath him with the ease of practice. Something pings in the back of his skull as his mind registers how the circular room looks, how the uniforms look, how the people move… It clicks at about the same moment that he gets back up on his feet.

 _Humans_. He's back on Earth, among his own kind again. He's free of the Galra.

They'll be after him; he won't go back into captivity ever again and he has to warn the Garrison about the threat, get them to launch a response. Maybe if they put enough effort into it they can match a Galra warship. Just one.

Or maybe he can take his shuttle and flee somewhere else. If it survived the crash he remembers. (Where is that? Where is _he?_ )

"Wait," he calls, holding up his other hand as he fights the urge to take down the threats as efficiently and brutally as possible. "I have information; there are aliens—”

The second tech turns around from rummaging inside a set of metal drawers, and his words cut off at the injector in their hand. "Shiro," the first man says from behind him, voice familiar and apparently familiar with _him_ , "you need to stand down, son. Disable the weapon and let us put you under until we know you're safe to bring out of quarantine. Stand _down_ and this can all be over in a minute."

There's a part of him, buried deep, that responds to that voice. To its familiar orders and cadence. The rest of him — every bloody, highly trained, arena-born inch — curls his lip back away from his teeth, the injector a hard line in the sand that no one will ever cross again as long as he has the power to stop them. He'll rip them to bloody _pieces_ before he lets anyone else make him helpless again; especially weak, _fragile_ humans who have no concept of what he's been taught to be.

"You're not touching me with that," he warns, his voice a dark growl as he angles himself partially sideways, so he can see all three of them at once. Then his gaze catches something, and he tilts his head a bit more to confirm that what's caught his attention is a camera, mounted above the shut door.

Camera means someone is watching. Someone watching means that someone outside has seen that this isn't going how they want it to. That means reinforcements; ones with real weapons and a better tactical position than the ones in the room with him. _That_ means that he needs to get out of here right now (resistance leads to guards, guards leads to a fight, and a fight leads to a _cell)._

The one with the injector moves, and his brain shuts down higher function as he reacts. They don't stand a chance.

 _Crack_ , and the one with the injector screams as his wrist breaks, injector falling to the floor from nerveless fingers. His Galra hand burns into the gas mask as he grabs it and _slams_ the man's head into the drawers behind him. Bone doesn't break, but the man slumps to the floor without another sound which is good enough for him. He grabs a metal tray from the top of shelves as he spins and slings it towards the familiar man, who's bolting across the room for the door.

It impacts the back of his head with a loud ring, and Shiro turns and leaps towards the third man, who's either more confident or too frightened to move. (He bets the latter; he can almost _smell_ the terror in the air.)

This one throws a wild punch at him, and he ducks beneath it and slashes up with his Galra hand, slicing through suit and skin alike and drawing a shocked cry. The man staggers backwards, clutching at the instantly-cauterized slash across his chest, and Shiro twists and throws a good bit of his strength into a kick that launches the man backwards. He follows, chasing the man as he hits the floor and striking the instant he's close enough. The snapped kick to the head is enough to eliminate the last of the threat.

He pauses, listening for a moment as he breathes in slow, measured inhalations, hands loose but muscles coiled. No sound. He relaxes a tiny bit, taking a closer look around as he makes sure that the three humans are unconscious (still alive; he didn't need anywhere near all his skill to deal with them) and the threat is done.

Then the door opens, and he's lunging before he can think to do anything else. His flesh hand curls around a pale throat, and he _cracks_ the intruder back into the wall, coiling his Galra arm back to strike—

" _Shiro_ ," the man gasps, a hand (black fingerless gloves; _familiar_ ) patting at his wrist, throat working convulsively beneath his grip. “Shiro, it’s _me_.”

His gaze rises from the gloved hand to the face of the man. There’s a dark red cloth half-covering it, and some urge makes him let his Galra hand fade back to metal before he slowly lifts it, tugging that cloth down to bare the young man’s face. Purple-tinted eyes, black hair, strong eyebrows, a mouth slightly parted as he gasps for air…

“Keith?” he asks, memory coming in small bursts.

“Yes,” Keith manages, fingers squeezing at his wrist. “ _Shiro_.”

He lets go, and Keith drops the last couple inches to the floor. One hand rises to his throat, rubbing against the skin now hidden by that cloth as he drags in a fuller breath. Shiro watches, arena-trained instinct gradually making way for old memory, things he suppressed a long time ago. There was no room for sentimentality or the grief of loss in the Galra cells; weakness would get you killed. He held onto the idea that he needed to escape and get back to Earth, but he banished every thought of _why_ to the deepest depths of his mind where the Druids wouldn’t be able to yank it out of him no matter what they did.

(Haggar didn’t need more ammunition to try and break him with.)

“Where am I?” is what he manages, as Keith takes a second, deeper inhalation.

Keith looks up, eyes wide and open in a way he automatically recoils from, taking a step back and disguising it as a look around the room. “Just outside the Garrison. I’m here to get you out; I distracted the rest of the soldiers outside but that won’t last long. We need to go.”

He considers for a brief moment — there’s more to that, something hidden in how the words are phrased — but it doesn’t sound like a lie so he says, “Lead the way.”

The door bursts open a bare second later, and he whirls as three figures come all but stumbling in. Young, human, casual clothing, no visible weaponry. Minimal threats, and certainly not the reinforcements that are supposed to be coming. He bares his teeth, but then Keith steps sharply in front of him, facing the three others as if protecting him. It’s so bizarre that the snarl fades off his face as he blinks, almost paying more attention to the back of Keith’s head and shoulders than the intruders.

"Out of the way!" Keith snaps, shoulders rising an inch as he coils tight.

"Woah, man!" the brown-haired, lean one says, with a bit of a scowl. "We're here to _help._ I am _not_ letting you get all the credit for this rescue mission, _Keith_."

"Do I _know_ you?"

A scoff. "You're my _rival_ , remember? Lance and Keith? Neck and neck?"

Keith straightens up a little bit, and Shiro can't see his expression but he can hear the dry condescension when Keith says, "Yeah, I vaguely remember you. You're a cargo pilot, aren't you?"

The small one, the one that looks distinctly familiar but he can't quite place, is watching him with bright, wide eyes. Completely ignoring the bickering, which is interesting. It's a cautious, almost hopeful sort of a gaze, not unlike how the other slaves would look at him whenever he was around them. Like he's dangerous, but somehow still a hero (as if he had the energy or time to care what the weaker slaves thought of him). Shiro holds the curious gaze, and soon enough those wide, glasses-protected eyes flit away, shying from his look.

"Not anymore!" Lance protests, chin lifting (stupid; exposing his throat and what a _tempting_ line it makes). "I'm a fighter pilot now, ever since _you_ got kicked out."

The large one finally speaks, hesitant and more clearly afraid than the others but quickly gaining speed. "Hey, guys, maybe we can save the reunion for after we're outta here? I mean, they've probably figured out that distraction by now and that means they're heading back here and I really _don't_ want to get caught here and also get kicked out of Garrison. I mean, among other things. Anyway, can we _go?_ Please?"

Lance and Keith glare for another moment, before finally Keith agrees, “He’s got a point. Let’s get out of here before we get swarmed.” Keith heads for the door, the others turning in tandem with him to follow. “I brought a bike; we _might_ all fit. _Or_ you can all go back to wherever you came from.”

“In your dreams,” is Lance’s instant response.

Shiro follows, out the farther door and into cold night air. He takes a shallow breath in, and the air _tastes_ different on his tongue, tastes unfamiliar almost, as used to the metallic tinge of Galra ship air as he is. This is fresh; earth-tinted. It makes him want to scrub his tongue off.

Keith leads the way, quickly, to a parked hover-bike just beside the door. He takes the pilot’s spot, hands curling around the controls, and though part of Shiro hates the idea of letting any of them at his back he slides in right behind Keith. He makes sure he’s sitting sideways for ease of escape, looping his left arm around Keith’s waist for stability. The small human climbs in right behind him, Lance beside that, and finally the larger one jumps onto the back end. (The bike hits the ground with a dull thud, and he can hear Keith sigh.)

“Alright,” Keith calls, “hang on!”

The bike does still move, despite all odds. Not as fast as it should, dim memory tells him, but fast enough. The desert whizzes past beneath them, and he keeps his attention split between Keith’s piloting and the cars chasing them. A large part of him wants to slide right off the bike and face them; carve his hand into the engines of the vehicles to end the chase, but he bites it back with some difficulty. The cars aren’t a real threat; he could tear apart the soldiers within in minutes; he’s got no doubts about that. If they really threaten him, then he'll rip them apart.

They gain, and he's a couple seconds from following through on his impulse when Lance makes a noise of sharp horror. A sharp grin curves Shiro's lips at the cliff ahead of them, and the worry of the people on the bike with them as Keith prepares to drive right off of it.

He tightens his grip on Keith's waist, shifts to grip the bike a little more securely, and they go over the edge. The others shout — in one case, scream — and the chasing cars skid to a stop on the edge behind them. Keith draws the bike sharply up at the end, flattening it out, and speeds off. (The small, familiar human at his back is clinging to his shirt, to him. He doesn't like it; has to hold tighter to Keith to not elbow them right off the bike.)

They speed off, leaving the pursuers behind them as Keith slows down a bit.

"I've got a place to go," Keith calls over his shoulder. "Hang on and I'll take us there."


End file.
